


Control

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Heavy BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys explore their dark side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_1900h. Your place. Be ready._

The words from the text message I sent him this morning swirl around in my mind as I drive, anticipation a taste in my mouth. I'm only half way there and I'm already hard, the soft texture of the leather against my cock making driving hazardous. I shake myself. Concentrate. You have all night.  
  
I force myself to park the car with my usual meticulous care and walk unhurriedly to the lift. I look at myself in the mirror, hands tapping impatiently on the rail, seeing eyes that are bright and feverish, pupils dilated in excitement until they're almost black, and I smile at my reflection, a wolfish, predatory smile reflected back at me.

This is a new line we're crossing tonight. An exploration of power and trust and control that we have been planning for weeks with our usual singleminded dedication. Neither of us does things by halves. Hours and hours of research, of titillating online explorations, of hilariously embarrassing and wildly arousing shopping expeditions, of talking, imagining and fantasizing the who and the what and the how and the where and the when. And, above all, the why.

If someone asked, our first answer to that hipothetical 'why?’ would be 'because it's there'. We like to push the limits. Of our relationship, of one another, of ourselves. Sometimes to self-destructive extremes. But this isn't just one of our juvenile dares, designed to cause maximum pain and embarrassment.

This why is more complex, and yet simpler at the same time: we love one another with a passion that consumes us, and we'll be damned if we leave any aspect of that love, of that passion, unexplored, untouched. We want to know and experience every aspect of us, every possibility, every single dark and hidden fantasy and fear and desire.

And the long and short of it is, we can. Because that love and passion is built on a solid foundation of years of friendship. Yes, we were friends before we became lovers. A friendship that had no boundaries, physical or otherwise, as though from the moment we met we'd become a single unit.

A perfect fit, yet as different as day and night. Together yet independent, each of us his own man. Inseparable, but both of us needing our own space on occasion, the physical distance allowing arguments to be forgotten, steam to be blown, peace and forgiveness to be found, bringing a renewal of our commitment.

Without need for discussion, one of the mutual understandings that cement our relationship, my flat became our home, his becoming our escape valve and, sometimes, like today, our playground for our more adventurous explorations.

I'm brought out of my musings by the 'ding' of the lift as it reaches his floor. This is it. With a deep breath, I step out and walk the few steps to his door, checking my watch. Yes, one minute past seven—perfect timing. I fish my keys out of my pocket and, with yet another deep breath, I unlock the door and walk into the small hallway, tossing the keys in the bowl by the door.

Closing the door behind me, I toe my shoes and socks off, and pull my tee over my head until I'm wearing nothing but the now uncomfortably tight black leather trousers. Right. I'm as ready as I'll ever be, I think, walking the four steps to the living room door. As I turn the handle, I put my game face on and stand straighter. This is a game that must be played right or not played at all.

I open the door and there he is, my instructions followed to the letter. Sitting on his heels as he kneels in the middle of the room, naked as the day he was born, pale skin almost glowing in the half light, knees spread to display him—god, he's already hard too—arms crossed behind his back making his ribcage more prominent under the skin, back straight but eyes submissively down and lips parted. I walk around him, my eyes inspecting every inch of his body while my cock strains painfully in its confines

I nearly fuck it up before we even get started. He looks so beautiful that I want to kneel before him and kiss him until we're both breathless. But that's not the way the game is to be played.

To give myself some breathing space, I look around the room. As instructed, he has arranged all the items neatly on the coffee table, and I smile as my eyes fly to the red leather riding crop with the butter-soft leather strap at the end. I knew, the moment I saw it in the shop's display case, that it would be the one he'd choose, and my eyes close as I remember the sound of the leather on his hand when he tested it.

I pick it up, feeling its weight, testing its flexibility and strength as I walk back to him where he kneels silently, patiently, and I wonder at the ease with which he has slipped into his role—he hasn't even twitched once. Hooking the end of the crop under his chin, I tip his head up so I can see his eyes, but still he keeps them down like a good little sub.

"Look at me." I command, and his eyes slowly lift to mine, widening as they skim over leather and skin. They are clear and steady when he finally looks at me, but they hold a light that I've never seen in them before and it sends a shiver down my spine.

Making a split second decision to err on the side of caution, I step out of character for a moment and, cupping his face in my hand, I ask, "Safeword?” He frowns, looking down, and spits the word, "Red." That scares me, knowing his stubborn, mulish ways, so I crouch down, holding his face in both my hands to make him look at me, "Promise me. Promise me you'll use it if you need to, or I'm walking right out of here."

It is a battle of eyes and wills, but he finally concedes with a nod, and I offer a brief prayer of thanks to whatever deity is listening. "Ok, remember, safety check; green, yellow, red." I have hardly finished when he replies, "Green." always the eager one. We're good to go, so with a brief kiss I release him and stand, turning my back to him while I get myself back into character.

"Stand up." I drawl without turning, my voice deeper, rougher than normal. I can hear him moving, but I stay where I am, hands clasped behind my back, crop swishing lightly against my leg. I can feel power surging through me, skin prickling with it. I turn back to face him now, walking a slow circuit around him as he stands legs apart, arms still crossed behind his back, the crop lingering on his skin as I move.

I stop in front of him, dragging the tip of the crop slowly from his lips to his cock and smile to myself as it twitches under the leather. I give it a light, playful slap, asking, "What is this, then?” He gives me an uncertain, sideways look from under his eyelashes, but he answers, "My dick."

The crop swishes delightfully, and my cock pushes eagerly against the fly of my trousers as the leather strap hits his arse with a resounding 'smack'. Caught unawares, he jumps, eyes widening in pain and surprise, but he catches himself and goes back to the sub stance. "Wrong." I whisper in his ear, the crop caressing the underside of his cock. "What is this?” I ask again. This time his answer is slower, a question, rather than a statement, "My cock?”

_Smack_

"Wrong." I repeat, followed by "What is this?" again. This time the slap to his cock is not quite so playful, and he gasps, looking at me with wounded eyes. "Eyes down!" I growl and he complies with a start. I can almost hear the cogs working furiously in his head, but for all his smarts he can be really dim when taken out of a familiar context, as demonstrated to his everlasting embarrassment during a certain French TV interview in the not too distant past.

It's cruel, really, but I guess that's what this is all about. I step back a little and circle him again, giving him some time to think. I can tell the moment he finally gets it, I can almost feel the virtual forehead slap. "Yours." he whispers almost inaudibly.

 _Smack_.

"What was that, _**toy**_?" I ask, letting derision tinge my voice. Oh, yes, that one got through alright. He stiffens visibly, but forces himself to answer, voice strong and proud, "Yours."

I smile to myself. This is going to be fun.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you love me?" he asks me, and I look at him through my tears. "Do you love me?” he asks again, his question a command. I try to speak, but then I remember— _Don't make a sound_ —and I just nod.

I want to tell him that I love him more than anything or anyone in the whole universe, that he is the light of my life and my reason for being, that I worship the ground he steps on. But I can't, it's not allowed, so I just nod, the tears rolling down my cheeks as I do.  
  
His hand runs lightly, lovingly down my back, and I stop myself from wincing as it touches the red hot pain of the crop marks. I want him to be proud of me. My reward is more exquisite pain, two swift cuts to my arse with the crop's shaft, and I buck against my restraints, agony and ecstasy exploding in my brain.

His body presses against me, the warm leather of his trousers hot against my flushed skin, and my freely weeping cock twitches, begging for attention. I whimper, pushing back as far as the restraints allow to increase the contact, to feel the outline of his cock rubbing against the fresh welts blooming on my skin.

"No." he says, and I freeze, "Stay still." I hang my head, knowing I've displeased him, and he kicks at my ankles, saying, "Spread them!" He moves away once I do as he commands, and I feel his absence on my skin like a physical thing, but I accept it, the same way I accept the pain. He leaves me, chained, spread, exposed, giving me time to think, to process, to submit.

I fought it at first, everything that I am rebelling against my submission, this game one I wanted to win, never realising that to win I would have to lose myself. Because that is what handing over control means, finding out that control is just an imaginary boundary we build around ourselves to feel safe.

Giving away control freed me. To feel. To be. To lose myself in his gift of pleasure and pain until nothing else matters, only him and what he chooses to give me. And I love him for helping me find this still place, for stepping over this line with me, for wanting to find new lines to cross.

His hand on my hip brings me back to the here and now. "Open." he says, as something cold and wet and hard is pressed between my arsecheeks until it finds its way inside me. I do as I'm told, trying to relax against the intrusion, but it's big and unyielding, getting bigger as it moves deeper into my body, and he's not giving me time to adapt. I do my best not flinch or cry out in pain as he relentlessly pushes the object in, my muscles clenching around it, but, despite the pain, my cock throbs and dances and weeps with excitement.

Finally the worst is over, the object—a butt plug, I realise now—thins out and gets sucked in all the way to the handle with an obscene wet sound. He pats it in, making me squirm at the sensation, and, squeezing one buttock roughly he says, "Good toy." and walks away.

I hear him rummaging around the coffee table, and I shiver as he chuckles to himself before making his way back to me. "Keep your legs spread, and push that pretty arse of yours out for me." he drawls, his lips brushing my ear as his hand slips between my legs to grab my balls and pull me back and up almost onto the tips of my toes until I am sticking out at a satisfactory angle. "There." he says, letting go, "Perfect. Don't move a muscle."

He moves back a ways and then... my world explodes. A myriad filaments of pain wrap around my thighs to lick at my cock, while blinding pleasure radiates out of my arse. My whole body goes rigid, arching impossibly, and this time I do scream, the sensation so intense that coming is not even an option. Eventually, the pain dwindles and the vibration stops. Body still tingling, I sag, the restraints the only thing keeping me upright.

"Did you enjoy that, my love?" he asks, his arm is around my waist, holding me up, his other hand stroking my thighs and my arse. I nod weakly. "Would you like to experience it again?" Yes. No. Yes. I don't know.

When I don't reply his hand moves up my back to my neck, turning my head to face him, his eyes intent, searching, a question in them. "Red, yellow, green?" For a moment it doesn't make sense at all, but then my addled brain gets hold of it. Safety check.

"Yellow."

His hands gentle on my back, he pulls me to him, holding my weight, and his lips brush my sweaty hair, whispering, "Breathe, love." I sag onto him with a sigh, my forehead on his chest.

I take deep calming breaths, reconnecting with the pleasure and the pain, no longer a duality but a new, unique, sensation that my body is learning to recognise as separate from either of its constituent parts. There is a purity to it, born of love and trust, that takes my breath away, and I let it fill me until I can feel it like a taste on my tongue.

His love settles on me like a salve as he holds me, and I have never felt closer to him. He owns me now, body and soul, in ways I could never have imagined before today, not even as possibilities, and I realise that I want more, that whatever he offers I will accept gratefully. "Green." I whisper, and I can feel his smile as he asks, "Are you ready for me, then?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Please god yes. I nod my head frantically and he laughs, a rich dark laugh. He kisses my temple and, saying, "That's my boy." he lets go of me.

"Arse out!" he barks after a few seconds, and I rearrange my shaking limbs to assume the position. This time he makes me wait. And wait. And wait. Expectant and shivering, panting with excitement. Rock hard. Knowing he's watching every minute twitch of my body, choosing his moment...

I surrender to the moment, empty myself of everything except his eyes on me, feeling their weight, their texture, their flavour. My breath slows down, the wild pounding of my heart eases off, my brain stops its scattered imaginings. I still. I feel. I submit. I am.

Excruciating pleasure. Exquisite pain. Fluttering eyelids. Straining tendons. Shorting nerve endings. Ecstasy. Agony. Blinding light. Blackness. Nothingness.

***

I'm lying belly down on my bed, and I can feel his gentle hands spreading damp coolness on my back, his lips trailing behind. He stops when he feels me stirring, lying down alongside me, eyes searching mine in concern. "Are you ok?” he asks, "you passed out.”

He stops for a moment and swallows hard, eyes suspiciously shiny, "Did I hurt you? You know, really hurt you?" I smile at him adoringly and shake my head, "I'm fine," I answer him, my voice croaky and weak, "a bit sore, is all. That stuff on my back is nice."

He smiles in relief, combing hair away from my face with his fingers and kissing my forehead, "You scared the everlasting living daylights out of me, love." I giggle weakly, muttering "Sorry." and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around him, enjoying his closeness, his fingers combing soothingly through my hair.

He feels different against my skin; new, undiscovered, full of possibilities, and my aching body responds to his newness with a swiftness that takes us both by surprise. He leans back to look at me, a silent question in his eyes, and I answer it by pulling him down to me, my lips hungry on his.

He breaks the kiss, his breath uneven, "Do you think you could bear me if I am really gentle?" he asks, and I nod eagerly, reclaiming his mouth, my hands busy between us undoing his fly. I tug at the leather and he rolls onto his back, lifting his hips to allow me to peel the trousers all the way off.

He reaches for me, pulling me to lie on top of him, but I stop him, and he gives me a confused look. "Your back..." he starts, but I put two fingers across his lips. "No." I tell him, "I want to feel every welt as you take me, knowing that you put them there. That I belong to you."

He looks at me for a few heartbeats, wonder and delight and love in his eyes, and my heart does wild somersaults in my chest. Then he gathers me in his arms and, with infinite gentleness, lies me on my back and covers my body with his. I sigh as his weight settles on me, cradled between my thighs, the slow burn of the welts on my skin matching the deeper burn inside my belly.

I stretch under him, arms braced against the headboard as I arch against him, wrapping my legs around his waist and wriggling my arse shamelessly until the tip of his cock is pushing at my hole, which is still slack and sleek from the butt plug. I still for a moment, giving myself time to feel him, my arms falling limply onto the pillow, elbows bent, on either side of my head.

Bracing himself on his elbows, the palms of his hands sliding possessively to cover mine and heavy-lidded eyes fixed on me, he enters me slowly, so slowly that time seems to stop, his warmth and gentleness erasing the lingering discomfort, pleasure blossoming in its wake.

"I love you." he says once he's fully sheathed in me, "you were magnificent today, and you've never looked as beautiful to me as you do now." Tears well in my eyes, and for once I don't try to hide them from him and let them roll freely down my cheeks, his gift to me, as he starts moving inside me.

We move together smoothly, effortlessly, without urgency, in a slow build up of pleasure that does not need a resolution, perfect in and of itself. A silent communion that seals our mutual claim, deliberately offered and willingly accepted through the ritual of pleasure and pain.

Inevitably, though, orgasm overtakes us, and we fall together, our voices mingling in a single ecstatic scream that chokes on itself as we cling to one another.

Renewed, restored, reborn.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

I didn't think I had it in me, I think, drunk with loving him, wide awake while he sleeps in my arms, spent with the physical and emotional extremes of the last few hours. My fingers stroke his back with feather-light touches, feeling the heat still radiating from the marks I put on his skin.

No. I didn't think I had it in me.  
  
Yeah, I had read all about it. Countless blogs and chat lines about control and power exchange. About sub space. About the deep connection between Dom and sub. And I took it all with a grain of salt. Brilliant rationalizations for a bit of kink, I thought.

Don't get me wrong, I was right into it, chomping at the bit, as it were. For all those weeks of planning I got hard to the point if exploding just thinking about it. Having him under my control in yet another game of power and dominance. Pushing the boundaries, as we always do.

Little did I know.

Or rather, I knew, but didn't understand. No, I didn't understand at all. And I don't think he did either. I was smug in my power, fixed on breaking him; he was defiant in his submission, refusing to be broken.

The excitement of the first hit with the crop on his skin went to my head, and I exulted when my dismissive epithet hit home. He fought me, and it became a battle of wills, both of us missing the point.

It took a while...

He got it first. It was as though a switch had been thrown in his brain. From one second to the next, the light of defiance hidden behind his submissive front left his eyes, and his whole body softened. I cheered internally thinking him broken, thinking I'd won, and I decided to press my advantage and drive the point home.

Yeah, it took me a while. I was, after all, enjoying myself, and we all know about guys and their brains when blood travels south. But I got there in the end. In a moment of blinding clarity that nearly brought me to my knees, I suddenly, finally, understood.

That the name of the game was not control, but trust. That, in giving up control to me, putting his body and soul in my trust, he had laid a claim on me deeper than anything we had ever experienced.

That, once he submitted to me, every mark on his skin, every sigh, every tear he shed, every ounce of pleasure I extracted from him, every single thing he endured from me, became love offerings. That he was laying himself open for me in ways that had nothing to do with the way in which I was using his body for my own gratification.

That the reason he was accepting pain and degradation was because he chose to do so. That, although submissive, he was not subservient, and we were equal partners in this journey of self-discovery. That thinking I had broken him dismissed him and his suffering as worthless, when they should be cherished; diminished him, when he was magnificent.

I didn't think it was possible to love someone as much as I loved him at that moment of revelation. I knew then that, just as he had chosen to give himself to me, all of me belonged to him, willingly and unconditionally, no holds barred.

From that moment on, what had been a battle became a ritual. Everything I did, everything he accepted, a mutual gift. Of pleasure. Of pain. Of limits met and breached. Of shared wonder. Of love. Of trust.

And at the end if it all, as he took me into the warmth and comfort of his body, my gift of pain a badge of honour on his skin, I told him of my love for him and my pride in him, and his love for me shone fiercely through his tears.

 

 


End file.
